by RITA GERLACH
Harvey looked over at her. “You may want to look away, Miss Rebecah. This is not for your eyes.”
She turned her face, shut her eyes. The grate of the surgeon’s saw cutting flesh, through muscle, then bone, pained her through and through. Her poor father did not deserve this. The sharp metallic scent of blood, the rancid smell of contagion, assaulted her, made her sick.
Tears pushed against her eyes. How much longer? What if he wakes?
Shivering, she closed her eyes and waited for it to be over.
The mantle clock ticked on. The fire in the hearth seethed. Her hand shook as she gripped the candlestick tighter. The clink of the surgeon’s tools tossed into a tin pan brought some relief. But she was afraid to look, to see her father changed.
“Take it away, Ralph,” she heard Dr. Harvey say.
While her heart lurched inside her breast, she listened to the creak of hinges, then the latch. Rebecah opened her eyes. Gore stained the sheets. Doctor Harvey dipped his hands into the bowl of water and washed. Rebecah shut her eyes when he wiped then in a towel and she saw the stains.
“I’ll need to give Sir Richard laudanum as soon as he wakes. It will keep him calm. I’ve nowhere else to be, so I’ll sit up the rest of the night with him. Have you a bed for my assistant?”
“My maid will show him to a room.” She turned to Margery and gave her instructions. Dr. Harvey sat in a chair near the fire, and within minutes dozed off. Rebecah drew her wrap over her shoulders, set another log on the fire, and waited by her father’s bedside.
Several hours later, a high wind shoved the rain southward, and dawn rose. Rebecah’s father turned his head and gazed at her with a painful glint in his eyes.
She smiled at him. “Hello, Papa. I know I was supposed to wait, but I couldn’t help it. I hope you’re not disappointed in me.”
“Never.” He tried to rise. “No feeling in my arm, daughter. No feeling.”
Barely could he speak the words. His voice raspy and low, gurgled from a dry throat. She gave him water, and he coughed. With trembling fingers, he shoved the glass away, reached over to touch his septic flesh, the cotton bandage, the stump. His face turned white, and he let out a ragged cry.
Tears sprang into Rebecah’s eyes and she embraced him. “It’s alright, Papa.”
“That self-righteous Methodist took off my arm,” he cried.
She tried to soothe him, touched his face. Dr. Harvey bolted from the chair, urged Sir Richard to be calm. Rebecah took the flask of laudanum from his hand and spooned it into her father’s mouth. “It’ll help, Papa.”
She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. He looked at her and she realized he had lost the will to live. Such sadness and despair were in his eyes. Such fear.
“I’m no longer a whole man. What is left for me now? You should have married before I left. Then I would not be grieved you will be left alone.”
Sir Richard reached for Rebecah’s hand.
“You’ll not die, Papa. We’ll have good times together again. I learned to play backgammon while you were away. Remember you told me to learn so you could beat me?”
Fear seized her as his eyelids fluttered and closed. She spoke to him. She held his hand tight, pressed it against her cheek.
Margery stepped closer and Rebecah turned to her. The look on her face broke Rebecah’s self-control. She went into her arms and wept.
“Come, away. He’s at peace and no longer in pain.”
Rebecah looked into her father’s face. Though he had been good to her, his reckless spirit had driven him into a military career. He had gambled away his inheritance, died a penniless, broken man, whose achievements were meager in the eyes of the world. Nevertheless, to his credit was the love he had for his daughter.
Wiping the tears from her eyes, she leaned over and kissed his forehead. She moved away from the bed to the window, opened the sash and felt the breeze, allowed it to quiver the curtains.
“I’m deeply sorry.” Dr. Harvey touched her hand. “I tried to…”
“I do not blame you,” Rebecah said. “There is no one to blame—except the man who did this, and my father for being so careless with his life.”
CHAPTER 2
Near the Monocacy River in Maryland
John Nash drew in a lung-full of air and gazed at the foothills shadowing his land. Dogwoods, oaks, and maples shimmered in the light of an autumn sun.
He brushed back his hair and put on his slouch hat. “I hate to leave, Joab,” he told the man standing beside him. “Watch over my land while I’m away.”
Joab nodded. “I will, Mr. John. It sure is a pleasant place. The good Lord blessed you.”
Joab, age sixty, once a slave, was now a freeman thanks to John Nash. His eyes had remained clear and sparkling in spite of the hard years he had lived. His hair, speckled with gray, receded above his forehead.
John Nash put his hand on Joab’s shoulder. “You know, I believe one day you and your descendants will own land.”
Joab shook his head. “I haven’t any family that I know of.”
“You have me.” Nash smiled.
Old Joab chuckled. “Indeed I do. I’ll stay with you until the day I die.”
“Well, for now, while I’m away, think of this place as your own. You’re master in my absence. Don’t let Mrs. Cottonwood bribe you into working for her while I’m gone.”
Joab let out a quiet laugh. “I don’t mind helping her when I can. She’s a widow, and the good book says I’m supposed to help widows and orphans. Now don’t it?”
“Yes, you’re right. But she’ll take advantage of you.”
Tramping through the leaves, they reached the road that bordered his land. Nash wore his fringed hunting shirt and moccasin boots.
“Excuse me for asking, Mr. John, but what’s those round your throat?”
“Indian beads given to me by Logan.”
“The Indian chief of the Virginias?”
“Aye. I won the chief’s favor after spending time in his village along the Yellow River.”
“Must’ve been long time ago.”
“Time enough, before I bought my land here. Logan was impressed when I wrestled his strongest warrior to the ground in a friendly match.”
“I sure would’ve liked to have seen that.”
Nash looked back over his shoulder. “I’ve not chosen a name for this place.”
Joab scratched his head. “It’ll come to you sooner or later.”
“Got any suggestions?”
“Nash’s Choice? Or how about River Bend?”
“Those are good. But I don’t know. How about Laurel Hill?”
“Good as any, Mr. John. There’s lots of mountain laurel growing in the hills.”
“Laurel Hill it is. I’m glad that’s settled.”
The dwelling stood two stories, the window glass made in the Catoctin furnace. It had been hard work building the house, digging out stones from mountain and field, hauling them to the site, laying them with mortar. Neighbors from all over the county had come to raise the small barn.
From where he stood he smelled the sweet waters of the Monocacy and Potomac rivers. The currents flowed pure and crystal, teaming with bass and sunfish. Jeweled dragonflies hovered above muddy flats in hoards. Swallows wheeled above the water in search of insects, their black wings sharp and their underbellies yellow in the light of a ruby sunset.
They spoke of other things as they strode along. A stag and young doe sprang from the woods and leaped across the field. Nash watched them until they disappeared. The unexpected thought of living alone without a woman made him feel empty, incomplete.
Pulling down the brim of his hat, he walked beyond a hedge of evergreens. “It’s going to be strange in England. I’ve been gone so long. But I must see my father. No king was ever easy to let part of his kingdom go. King George is no exception. My father does not like the King’s politics, and if war comes, his views could bring him grief.”
“He’ll be glad
to see you, Mr. John, especially if the Revolution lasts a long time.”
As the last light of day disappeared over the mountains, Nash saw a whirl of dust round the bend. A horn blew from the coachman’s trumpet and he held his hands high in the air for the coachman to see him. Nash’s horse stiffened his ears, reared his head and whinnied.
Nash patted Meteor’s neck. “Take care of him, Joab. Don’t let him get into any clover.”
“I won’t, Mr. John. Nothing but straw and oats for him.”
Nash handed the reins over, took hold of Joab’s hand and wished him well. Then he climbed inside the coach packed with people heading for Annapolis.
Joab twisted his hat between his hands. “Mr. John, I ain’t got much. So I was hoping…”
Leaning out the window, Nash smiled from one corner of his mouth. “I’d bring you back a gift? What could you want from that misty island, Joab?”
“A new pipe and it doesn’t have to come from England. Bring one from Annapolis on your way home.”
With a wink, Nash touched the brim of his hat. “You’ll have your gift, my friend. Stay well.”
The coachman snapped his whip and the horses carried on. A cloud of rust bellowed out from beneath hoof and wheel.
“Headed for England, are you?” a passenger asked.
“Yes, for a visit only, though I cannot say I’m looking forward to the voyage.”
“By your clothes I’d say you were a settler in these parts. But to go to England says you might be loyal to the King.”
“He lost my loyalty a long time ago. I’m going back to see my family. Revolution is coming and I may not have another chance.”
“Aye, ‘tis true,” the man agreed. “So you plan to return?”
“I must. I have land here, and like every able-bodied patriot, I aim to protect it and win my liberty.”
The man’s wife, a woman slim and gray, set her hands over her lap. “You plan to bring back a wife? That is if you don’t have one already.”
“Marriage is the least thing on my mind, madam.”
“Why not?”
Nash shrugged. “I haven’t met a girl smart enough to lure me into those bonds any time soon—an English one I would disregard completely.”
CHAPTER 3
Raising the coach shade, Rebecah looked back at the brick gables of Ashburne House. Closing her eyes, she searched for strength, for she grieved in innumerable ways and this was one more thing added to it. The father and mother she adored were gone, and Ashburne was now in the hands of her uncle.
Raindrops on the ivy sparkled in the evening light. Fog drifted into the woods where tall hemlocks imprisoned shadows. The dank scent of dusk gave way to autumn rising from the drenched earth.
Margery leaned forward. “You’ll like Endfield. You’ve two cousins near your age there.”
Twisting the fringe on one of her gloves, Rebecah sighed. “I’ll miss home.”
“For a time. Endfield is much closer to society. No doubt, there’ll be parties and outings, and more than likely your aunt will have you stay a season in London.”
“London is too far.”
“True, but the journey is part of the experience.”
The coach rolled by a row of poor tenant houses. Barefoot children played with a stick and an old rag made into a ball along the road. Rebecah slapped the roof of the coach. “I want to give them money.”
Margery frowned and settled back. “If you give them a penny their father will waste it on drink.”
The horses slowed and the coach eased to a halt. Rebecah climbed out.
“Oh, don’t go near those children,” Margery warned. “You’ll catch something.”
Ignoring her maid, Rebecah gathered her skirts and walked down the rutted road, her cloak flapping in the breeze. Holding close her hood, she called to the children whose expectant eyes grew fixed on the lady coming their way.
Rebecah handed them each a coin and looked into what she knew were sweet faces underneath the grime. “I saw a farmer down the road selling apples. Perhaps this is enough to buy some.”
The children thanked her. Off they ran in the direction of the farmer.
Rebecah turned back. Margery glared out the coach window. “I caught nothing. No need to give me such a look.”
Margery scooted back. “Hurry before the cold soaks through your shoes.”
Settled in her seat, Rebecah pulled her gloves tighter. As the coach traveled on, she looked out at the countryside. Her thoughts changed now from admiring its beauty, to the plight of impoverished children. How many of them were orphans too?
After a pause, she reached over and patted Margery’s hand. “Why are you angry with me? I did a good thing.”
“You’re too compulsive for a young woman. Your uncle will not tolerant you wasting money on beggars.”
“It was mine to give.”
“You’ll not be allowed to ride bareback at Endfield, I would think. And your aunt will force you to wear shoes all the time.”
Rebecah smiled at her opinionated servant. “Then I shall run away the first chance I get back to Ashburne.”
Margery rolled her eyes. “Oh, don’t think of it. You deserve better than what you’ve had.”
“For instance?”
“Friends and the company of young gentlemen of quality for a start.”
“I cannot bear to hear this sermon repeated.”
Margery gasped. “Well, I try to find the right words hoping you’ll agree.”
“I cannot be fitted into a mold, Margery. I’ll resist.”
“No doubt Lanley will visit Endfield and want you to.”
“He can want all day, and I’ll not change.”
“You must admire something in him.”
“I haven’t dwelled on him enough to know.”
“He’s witty and handsome, and dresses so well.”
“I agree, he dresses very well, though a little too extravagant for my liking. However, I disagree on all other counts. His wit is dry, and he is not at all good looking.”
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” countered Margery.
“I’ll give him credit for his fine manners, but he is lethargic as a snail, Margery.”
“You misinterpret a quiet disposition for lethargy, miss.”
“He has been too lazy to visit Ashburne. It is not grand enough for him.”
“Well, now that your uncle owns it, perhaps he’ll restore it to its former beauty and Lanley will appreciate it more.”
Rebecah changed the subject. “How far is Endfield?”
“We should arrive by nightfall,” replied Margery. “I do hope they feed us. I’m starved for a heavy dinner.”
“I’m hungry, too.”
“That’s a good sign. You’ve hardly eaten in days.”
“I not dare ask for a meal when we arrive.”
“Had your father taken you to Endfield often, you’d be more at ease.”
“I think I was there twice in my life. I don’t know my relations at all.”
“There’s more to family than father and daughter.”
Rebecah nodded. “We were close, and I adored my mother. We were happy when she was living.”
“It is not my place to say. But why he kept you from your cousins, I’ll never understand.”
“He called Uncle Samuel a scoundrel.”
Yet he would tell Rebecah it was a virtue to think the best of people, to bless and not curse, to bend and not stiffen. His estranged relationship with his brother always baffled her though. A portrait hung in the hall at Ashburne of the two brothers as children. Their long brown curls made them look like a pair of cherubs instead of mischievous boys.
“Must’ve been a quarrel that parted them,” Margery sighed. “The last time I saw of Samuel Brent was at your christening. What a handsome man. But his eyes were proud, unlike your father’s.”
“I too have wondered what caused the rift between them. Papa died without reconciling with his brother
.”
“A sad affair they made of it. Perhaps your uncle will make things right now that you’re under his roof.”
Rebecah’s face remained turned to the window. The sky grew thick with clouds and rain fell in soft airy sheets.
Margery eased back and closed her eyes. Rebecah watched her with affection. How could she do without Margery? Surely, her uncle would allow her to stay.
They rounded a bend and through the gloom Rebecah saw the manor atop a hill.
“Ho, coachman!” A voice called out.
A man and boy stood to the side. The coach halted and she heard the man speaking to her driver. “The bridge is out. Move the coach off the road. You’ll have to unhitch the horses and lead them.”
The door swung open and a face appeared. “Good evening.” He had a warm smile. “Your uncle left me instructions to meet you. The bridge over the stream is out and the wheels will get stuck. I’ll have to carry you over.”
Margery moved her charge back. “How are we to know you speak the truth and aren’t a highwayman? Maybe you mean to rob us.”
The man pointed to the house. “Is that not my master’s house?”
Margery set her mouth. “I suppose it is.”
“There’s no question, is there?” He handed his son the lantern. “My name’s Henry Carrow.”
Taking Henry’s hand, Margery climbed out first. She squealed when her shoes sunk into a puddle. Henry chuckled and led her to a dryer patch of ground.
“We’ll have those toes of yours warming by a fire shortly.”
Next, he lifted Rebecah into his arms. She pulled the edge of her hood close to her face against the rain. Margery held her skirts higher than propriety allowed.
“I’m not about to have my best petticoat ruined like my shoes…Oh, this wind is too much.”
“Stay close behind me,” Henry advised. “This large frame of mine makes a good wall against the wind.”
Henry sloshed through ankle-deep puddles, stepped into tracks and grooves made by other coaches and horses. Afraid he might slip and fall, Rebecah gripped his shoulder tighter.
